


The Truth About Love

by Orianne (morganya)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-10
Updated: 2002-01-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/Orianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The L.A. scene can be a bitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth About Love

The kid's name is Michael. He works as the second assistant cameraman on The Drew Carey Show. Brad met him when he shot Drew Live II. Michael is a skinny kid, just turned twenty three, with strange, muddy eyes hidden under a mop of blondish hair. He tells Brad that he is studying to be a vet. *Well, there's a first,* Brad thinks. *Someone in show business dreams of being a working grunt.*

Brad thinks that Michael knows he has a girlfriend; Brad made it a point to mention her on the set. Brad also made it a point to flirt with Michael, carefully, so carefully, feeling him out to see if he was ready, willing and able. After the last day of taping, Michael finally agreed to meet with him.

They meet in the evening, after Michael gets out of class and Brad gets out of Raleigh. They take separate cars to the hotel, different routes. Brad checks in, paying cash for the night, while Michael waits outside in his rust-colored Dodge, more the car of a farm boy than a Hollywood wannabe. The hotel manager gives Brad the key to the room.

The room is apricot colored, with pictures of boats and horses on the walls. Brad sits down at the desk near the window, watching Michael shift from side to side in front of him.

He toys with the stationary on the desk, not moving. Michael must want him to make a move, to say something, but he doesn't. Michael chews on the skin of his thumb and finally sits down on the bed. He turns on the TV.

Brad thinks about his girlfriend. She might be finishing up at work now, or just coming back to their house. She works as a makeup artist; their bathroom is full of moisturizers, eye pencils and lipsticks of all shades. Perhaps she is just walking in the door; perhaps she is checking to see if he is home.

Brad stands up, goes over to the bed. Michael shoves his hair out of his eyes and looks up from the television; on the screen some hard rock band shrieks, "Living with these changes." Michael reaches for the remote.

"Leave it on," Brad says. "A little mood music." He smiles. In fact, he doesn't like the song; he's too old now for loud music. But he likes noise.

Michael smiles back. Brad wonders if he's ever been in this situation before and sits down next to him. Michael turns his head, his hair falling in his eyes, and Brad dimly remembers the reason why he'd decided to take a chance with this otherwise ordinary-looking kid; his hair seems golden in some lights, dark red in others.

Michael reaches for him, and Brad moves away, saying, "What, are we at the drive-in? You think you'll buy me a milkshake, too, if I put out?"

Michael looks baffled. He gets up from the bed and starts to walk to the door. Brad gets up quickly, annoyed at the kid for being so fucking sensitive and at himself for not taking that into consideration. He considers letting the kid leave, chalking it up to the old 'it just wasn't right' excuse, but within a millisecond he  
rejects it. The truth is, he doesn't want to be alone.

He follows Michael to the door, saying, "Hey, slow down." When the kid pauses Brad says, his voice cajoling, warm as caramel, "I made one bad  
joke. Don't hold it against me."

The kid doesn't look at him, but he doesn't open the door either. Brad goes into tap-dancing mode, the words coming out of his mouth meaningless, forgotten as soon as they're spoken. In the back of his head Brad wonders why he needs to do this, why at the first sign of disinterest he goes into overdrive, coaxing whoever it is back to him. In these moments, he feels like he's back in school, joking and charming frantically until he's convinced that everyone loves him.

Whatever he says to the kid works. He allows Brad to lead him back towards the bed.

"Just relax," Brad says softly. He feels more in control now that the kid is staying; the urge to charm has faded. He knows what to do.

Michael lies on his back. Brad unbuttons his shirt, takes off his belt, unzips his pants. When Michael tries to move Brad shushes him, puts a hand on his chest. He tosses the pieces of clothing away as he works.

When the kid is naked, Brad is disappointed. Michael's body is slight, evenly tanned by either days on the beach or, more likely, a salon. He dyes his hair, Brad notices. The carpet doesn't match the drapes, as the saying goes.

For a moment Brad considers tossing him out. *Everything in this town is a fake.* But then he figures, as long as he's gotten this far, he might as well continue. He wets his fingers with saliva, motioning the kid to turn over.

The kid, nervous and confused, tenses at the first feeling of Brad's fingers in him. Brad puts a free hand on his shoulder, repeating, "Just relax." The kid presses his face into the apricot bedspread. Brad feels him breathing, slow, deep breaths at first. It is not until his breathing changes into short excited gasps that Brad feels desire: the kid is transfused by eagerness, his hands clutching the edges of the bed in the attempt not to move. Brad removes his fingers slowly, fumbles in his jeans pocket for the condom. He unzips his pants, not bothering to take them off the whole way. He puts the latex sheath on expertly and enters the kid.

For a few moments, everything is perfect. Brad can forget about the apricot room, the television now screeching something like, "Way up high, or down low," the thought of his girlfriend waiting for him at home, even the kid he is currently fucking. For a few moments he can close his eyes and lose himself.

And then it's over. Brad withdraws from the kid. His body is slick with sweat. He pushes himself off the bed and goes into the bathroom to dispose of the condom and to urinate. When he comes back out, the kid is sitting up on the bed, hands drumming on his stomach.

Brad moves to the desk, sits down and stretches his legs out. He looks at the kid.

"You can go now," he says. Brad is always interested in this moment. It is easiest when the guys shrug their shoulders and take off with a  
"Thanks, man." Sometimes they hang around, but not that often.

The kid looks hurt. He gets off the bed, snarling, collecting his clothes. Just before he gets to the door, still buttoning his shirt, he looks at Brad and says, "You're a lousy lay."

Brad doesn't miss a beat. "Well, if someone had to hate it, I'm glad it was you."

Still cursing, the kid slams the door behind him. Brad looks at his watch. It is ten thirty in the evening. It's time to leave.

He returns the key to the front desk and goes out to his car. It doesn't look that dark, but Brad doesn't know if that's because the days are getting longer or if the city's just getting more brightly lit.

It is not until he gets back into his car that he feels the numbness come back. It seems that everything about this situation is familiar to him. Already Michael's face has begun to fade into the gallery of his past; he's damned if he can remember anything about what just happened. The kid has already become just another kid in another hotel.

He knows there will be others, other hotel rooms, other kids. He knows exactly what every day of his life will be like, days and days stretching ahead of him, and he can see no pleasure in any of it.

He thinks about calling his girlfriend, but he doesn't know what to tell her yet. He knows she's expecting him home. He knows she wants to hear his story.

He needs a drink. He needs distraction. 'And this is what I always say. And this is what will happen.' He lights a cigarette and turns up the radio.

He drives to a bar called Smog. It is a small place, and it looks more of a dive than a hotspot, which Brad likes. He is becoming too comfortable with dives.

He scans the bar, spots a man in his late forties, wearing a gray cardigan, drinking alone. He seems like the best bet. Brad goes to sit next to him.

"Hi. My name's Carl," Brad says.

The man looks him up and down. He has dark hair streaked with gray, a sharp nose. "Robert," he says, with more dignity than the situation warrants, extending a hand.

Brad looks over the bar. "Man. It's like the Village of the Damned in here tonight, isn't it?"

Robert chuckles and doesn't answer. He swallows the rest of his drink.

"What are you having?" Brad says.

Robert waves an arm at the bartender, then points to his empty glass. The bartender brings him what looks to be a martini. Brad orders a beer. Robert looks at him sideways. "Beer," he says mockingly.

"Yeah, I know," Brad says, taking a drink. "Not very classy. I should put on a wife beater and a pair of sweatpants and make the illusion complete." He waves his hand theatrically.

Robert chuckles again. He drinks deeply from his glass. Brad doesn't know if Robert actually finds him amusing or if it's just drunken giggling. Brad almost dislikes him, but he's not about to give up. *All right, Sherwood. It's time to dance.*

Robert stands up from his stool. "I must depart."

Brad says, "You shouldn't drive."

Robert laughs. "And what do you suggest?"

"I'm stone cold sober. I can give you a ride."

Robert shakes his head.

"Why not?" For a moment Brad thinks of pulling the old, "Do you know who I am?" trick, then changes his mind. Regally, Robert asks the bartender to call him a cab. Brad says, "What's wrong with me?"

Robert looks down his nose at Brad. "If you want to get fucked so badly, young man, I suggest that you find someone who will take cash."

Brad doesn't get rejected that often, but it happens. He smiles and gets up. He has the impulse to say, "See you around, old-timer," but he's not sure if Robert will get it.

He goes back to his car and drives to a bar near the airport. He hasn't gone to this place many times before, but he feels like he's going to go crazy, and if he doesn't want to fall apart, this bar is his best bet.

When he walks into the bar, the first thing he hears is Pearl Jam on the sound system. "I would rather starve than eat your bread." He can barely see in the dim light; when his eyes focus, he zeroes in on a man wearing a purple silk shirt, sitting in the corner, hanging over his drink.

Brad goes up to him, gives him a name. The man stares at him with the frank, puzzled look of the very drunk. Brad lifts him out of the booth, takes him outside.

He puts the man in his car and starts to shut the passenger side door, but the man makes an inarticulate grunting sound, groping for him. Brad steps closer to the car. This is too awkward, too public, he doesn't want it to go this way.

The man gurgles deep in his throat. Brad jumps back, not quickly enough, as the man vomits. His shoes and pant cuffs are splattered with puke.

He takes the man out of the car, drags him back by the bar and leans him up against the wall. The man slides to the ground. Brad takes out his cell phone, calls a cab, and walks away.

He begins the drive home. *It's just one bad night, it won't always be like this.* He will say anything to himself to feel something.

He walks in the door to his house. The lights are turned down low. His girlfriend sits on the couch, watching TV.

"Hi, honey," he says. The tone of his voice is familiar to him. Once more, he sees the rest of his life lining up in front of him.

She gets up off the couch and walks slowly towards him. He can only see her outline. She moves close to him, her hands brushing over his chest.

"I want to hear it," she says, and her voice is a caress. "I want to hear it all. I want to feel what you feel when you fuck those men. I want you to tell me how they touched you. I want to know, Brad. I want to know."

His arms encircle her, feeling her solidity. She waits with upturned eyes, and he lets his breath out, just before he goes into the story, the truth.


End file.
